Infinite
by LaPoseur
Summary: The night Agnes returns to Henri, and the morning he leaves for France. Like my heart wasn't already broken.


Henri Leclair was a man of his word. He would fight for France. But he would return. He would return to his heart, his unassuming ingénue, his Agnes. His Lily of the Valley. Before the fountain in the park, he buried his head into her shoulder, breathing her in. He could feel her body trembling in his arms.

Yes. She was here.

After what seemed like the longest moment she had ever felt, Agnes drew away from his neck, kissing the side of his face, sniffing. His dark eyes were so intense she could barely make them out, but she lifted a hand to his cheek and stroked her thumb across it.

"Come on," she said, her voice barely audible and half smothered by tears. Tugging him gently by the hand, she led him to Miss Mardle's silent house. Miss Mardle would understand. George wouldn't. But Miss Mardle would understand that though it was improper, they couldn't not. Not tonight. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes that Agnes quietly held back, and decided to banish thoughts of him leaving from her mind. Not tonight.

As they reached the front door, Henri hesitated, pulling her close.

"Agnes, we… You don't have to do this." He murmured. Unable to articulate the reasons why, Agnes merely kissed him with surprising force, her hand sneaking to the back of his neck, just like it used to five years previously. That one touch brought back memories, memories of that first night at his apartment, mornings where she would rush to get ready and he would watch her leisurely, days where they would sneak kisses in the studio and he watched her blossom. "_Oh, ma cherie,"_ he whispered against her lips, and he felt her hands pull him towards the door. Through the dark, they moved up the stairs and into her room.

For a long time, they stood there, remembering one another's lips and learning them again. They were infinite.

Henri stood still as Agnes walked around him, taking his coat from his shoulders and hanging it up with hers. She returned, letting her hair tumble down, leaning up to kiss him and slipping her hand inside his waistcoat. His hands circled her waist, fingers smoothing over fabric and yearning quietly for the girl beneath them. He helped her with his waistcoat, tie, shirt, and suddenly he felt his heart catch up with his body.

The change in him was noticeable. Agnes could feel his hand wind itself deeply into her hair, his lips move with fire and she matched him, her own body responding with emotions that she had locked way for years. Her dress and her petticoats were discarded, his bare skin warm on hers. A small part of her mind recalled their first night, recalled his tenderness, his respect, when she stood before a man in nothing but her corset and camisole for the first time. Just like now, his dark eyes drank her in, his hands hot against her as he unlaced her. Even now, he did so with reverence and anticipation. Except this time, she could feel his breath, steamy with need, ghost upon her as he did so.

When clothed only in her camisole, Agnes pulled Henri onto the bed, their bodies moving in a new and yet familiar way. Their breaths mingled, their skin clashed, and soon there was nothing but them, like the sun and moon. In his lap, she cradled his head against her neck as he rocked against her and she moved, pushed, drowned against him. They were a mess of passionate, fearful limbs, moving together in more and more frantic motions, desperate to be as close to one another as they could be as they both climbed, desperate to remain forever in this, their night. Desperate to outwit the impending daybreak.

When Agnes let her head fall back, her pale neck stretched out before him and Henri watched in exaltation as her mouth opened in a silent cry, even as he felt her body shudder and crash about his. He knew her. He knew this, knew how her arms would feel as they tensed around his neck, knew the gasping breaths that fluttered from her lips. And yet, though he had relived this beauty so many times, betrayed by his mind and body when he would catch her eye in the studio, he could not have prepared for how dazzling she was. And moments later, when she twisted her fingers tightly into his hair, he was tipped over the edge of oblivion, the image of his Agnes in the throes of glory burned into his vision. He muffled a hoarse moan on her skin, and, after he had unravelled, when she was piecing him back together with soft hands on his back, his neck and hair, he found that his teeth had nestled into her shoulder. He tried to apologise but she smiled, almost wistfully, and kissed him. They lay in bed, wrapped closely in one another, and waited for the morning to find them.

Agnes awoke to dim dawn light through the curtains. A soft hand was tracing her face, playing with her hair, stroking her cheeks. Her eyes lifted and met Henri's. He smiled gently, tucking an errant lock behind her ear.

"Good morning," she whispered, and returned the smile with tears threatening to spill over her cheeks.

He did not think he could speak. His throat was too tight. So instead of replying in voice, he drew her into a firm embrace, memorising the feel of her body against his.

A few hours passed wordlessly. They rose, dressed silently, and left the house. Instead of walking the quickest route to the Selfridge's residence, they walked through the park, each remembering their moments. Somehow words seemed wrong. And sometime later, when Henri had picked up his last belongings and exchanged a heartfelt farewell with Harry, they made it to the station. A train awaited him, shortly to go.

"Henri," Agnes finally said, her voice cracking. He hushed her failing voice with a kiss, his hands cupping her face. The train whistle blew and Agnes jumped, pulling back. Her small hands wrapped around his wrists. "I love you," she mouthed.

"And I love you," he mouthed back. He picked up his bag, kissed her once more on the cheek, with the parting line, "I'll be back by Christmas, I promise."


End file.
